


Likeness

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Comfort, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Haircuts, M/M, Magic, No Plot/Plotless, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Credence had arrived at Graves’s door trembling and uncertain, with a pair of scissors in his hand and a foolish-simple plea at his lips: 'cut my hair for me.'" Credence musters the courage to make a request, and Graves gives him what he wants.





	Likeness

Graves likes the line of Credence’s throat.

He can see it best from his current position standing just behind and over the boy’s shoulder. There’s the fall of Credence’s hair, grown out dark and shaggy to weight against the tops of his ears and ruffle at the back of his collar; and the dark of his clothes, of course, black faded out to grey by too many washings of too-thin fabric. The cloth grips him like a vise, tightening in against the narrow of his waist and the span of his ever-hunched shoulders as if a straightjacket, as if a jail Credence carries with him everywhere he goes; but his neck is free, in spite of everything else, curving up from the grip of that too-tight collar to make an elegant line of pale freedom up to the tremor of his set jaw and the color of those soft lips that can’t be held back by even the firmest puritanical hold.

Graves reaches out to touch that curve now, to ghost his fingers just against the near-translucence of skin drawn taut over the sharp edge of Credence’s jawline. Credence jerks with the contact, quivering like he’s taken the force of a curse directly to his chest; but his lips part too, opening on some whimper that lingers voiceless in the air, like wandless magic forcing itself free of his veins in spite of everything he might do to hold it back.

“Credence,” Graves says, purring over the familiar syllables like he’s drawing open the soft of the sounds and unfolding Credence into the full space of existence his name purchases him. “I’m going to need you to hold still.” He slides his fingers in along the edge of the other’s jaw to press his palm flush to Credence’s skin, to cradle the shape of the other’s head in the curve of his hand; he can feel Credence trembling under his touch, can feel the force of adrenaline humming close under the other’s skin. “I don’t want to cut you.”

Credence shakes his head, the motion rough and jerky with intent. The motion of it turns his face in against Graves’s touch, like he’s nuzzling in close against the other’s wrist. “Yes,” he breathes, sounding shaky and undone. Graves watches his lips come together, watches the motion of Credence’s throat quiver as he swallows back some illusion of composure. “Yes, Mr. Graves, I will.”

Graves lifts his other hand out over the space between them to touch against the dark of Credence’s hair, to stroke down over the soft weight of it until his palm is fitting to the other side of Credence’s face and he has the other’s head braced to stillness between his palms. He can hear the pant of Credence’s breathing, can feel the gasp of heat from the other’s lips; when he pulls back it’s to rock against the grip of his hands, to feel the way Credence’s head tips back and up in absolute, instant surrender to the urging of Graves’s touch. Credence’s lashes are dipped shut, inky shadows hiding away the half-sullen, half-terrified color of his eyes; but his lips are parted, his mouth half-open on the unvoiced want quivering in his veins as Graves angles his head back and lifts his face into the light. Graves can see the whole line of his throat like this, from the delicate skin just under Credence’s chin running smooth down against the motion of swallowing in his throat, a helpless, involuntary action like he’s fighting back words, or like he’s trying to fight for air instead of just breathing it; for a moment Graves just keeps them there, watching the light slide over Credence’s skin, watching the thrum of tension in the other’s throat laid as bare by the lift of Credence’s chin as if Graves had stripped him down to the bare skin that lies under the weight of his rigid-fitting clothes. It’s intoxicating just to watch, to see the effect of his touch so clearly telegraphed in the shift of Credence’s body under his unflinching grip; but finally Graves takes a breath, and lets his hold ease to tip Credence’s head forward and to the side again.

“I’m going to get the scissors,” he says: a declaration, not a question. He slides his touch back and away from Credence’s skin, paralleling the movement of his hands as he pulls away; Credence’s head drops forward as Graves’s touch lifts away from him, his lips parting on a gasp of air like he’s forgotten how to breathe, like he’s a flower wilting for lack of water. Graves keeps his eyes on the dark of that bowed head, on the slump of those narrow shoulders, as he reaches out with a wordless summoning spell to call the scissors in to him. “I could do this faster with magic, Credence.”

Credence’s head jerks, moving through a sharp action of rejection while he’s still reaching for words to push back against the offer Graves knew he’d refuse, the same way he did when he first came here. “No,” he says, his voice raw and straining in his throat. “Ma--she’d know, I think. She always knows when I’ve got magic on me.”

“She can’t know,” Graves soothes, the way he always does. “No No-Maj can sense magic like that.” But it’s comfort instead of protest, and he’s coming back in anyway; because there’s something intimate about the weight of the scissors in his hand, about the draw of the metal sliding sleek over itself as he tests the play of the blades against each other. It would be an easy thing to wave his wand over Credence’s head, to give the boy whatever haircut he could dream of, whatever appearance he would like to have; but Credence had arrived at Graves’s door trembling and uncertain, with a pair of scissors in his hand and a foolish-simple plea at his lips:  _cut my hair for me_ , and Graves relishes the opportunity of this more than he regrets the inconvenience.

“It’s fine like this,” he says, as he steps back in over the distance to where Credence is trembling in the seat where Graves set him shortly after his arrival, after divesting him of his somewhat heavier coat more by his own action than by any kind of deliberate intention on Credence’s part. Coming this far seems to have used up all the store of determination Credence has available to him to leave him pale and trembling obedience to everything Graves asks of him in word or touch; and Graves has never wished to offer complaint to Credence’s bone-deep, quivering surrender. “I’m in no hurry.” He reaches out to touch his fingers to the back of Credence’s neck, where the dark of the other’s grown-out hair is falling heavy at the back of his collar; Credence’s head falls forward at once, taking on a sharp angle as if to make an offering of the knob at the top of his spine, of the line of bone just under his skin. Graves watches his fingers slide over that line, drawing his touch up and over the edge of it like he’s feeling out the shape of a new wand, like he’s savouring the heft and fit of it against his fingers; and then he tightens his grip, just barely, to curl his fingers in at the back of Credence’s neck like he’s holding the other in place. “Do you want to leave, Credence?”

Credence makes a tiny, incoherent noise, like a half-formed whimper in the back of his throat. Graves can feel the other shudder under the weight of his grip, can feel the intent of action under his touch even before Credence shakes his head in a short, sharp negation. “No, Mr. Graves.”

“Good,” Graves says; and then he takes a step in closer, edging away the gap between them until his vest is almost touching Credence’s hair, until Credence could tip his head back and press against the support of Graves behind him. He pushes his hand up, ruffling through Credence’s hair to cup at the back of his head and brace him in the sharp forward lean his insecurity has already formed for him. “Hold still, Credence.”

Graves can feel Credence quiver with the first slick  _shick_  of the scissors slicing through his hair. There’s a tremor that runs through the boy, a jolt of reaction down the back of his spine; as if the sound carries magic, as if it’s surging through him to light him up from within. Graves tightens his grip on Credence, bracing his fingers to steady the hold he has on the whole weight of the other’s head; and he keeps going, moving the scissors with an easy grace that barely requires him to watch the blades moving. There’s magic in the air between them, his own or maybe some measure of Credence’s latent energy enough to smooth the other’s hair to the back of his neck, to draw free tangles and leave it hovering ghost-like just over pale skin; all Graves is left to do is draw the scissors across, bracing the cool metal of them at the knob of Credence’s spine and closing the handles together to shear through the dark fall of the other’s hair. The strands fall loose over the boy’s shoulders, they catch against the downy adrenaline-raised hairs at the back of Credence’s neck; and Graves keeps cutting, bringing up the line of Credence’s hair to lay bare the pale skin above his collar, to clear away the shadow from the pattern of his spine running against the back of his neck. Credence quivers with every sound of the scissors, his breath catching faster like he’s being drawn further into heat with every motion of Graves’s fingers, like he’s losing air from his lungs with every strand of hair that falls to the other’s touch. Graves slides his hand to the side to brace at Credence’s temple, pulling back and pushing sideways at one and the same time; and Credence moves at once, as if compelled, his whole body angling to the side to follow the magnet-draw of Graves’s touch. His hair falls over his ear, the dark of the strands part against the curve of it, and Graves lifts his hand from its bracing position to stroke through the dark weight of the locks, to pull them back and away from Credence’s face as he looks down at the other.

“Credence,” he says; gently, to keep from startling the other out of whatever blissful delirium has gripped him. Credence’s lashes flutter, his lips shift; but there’s no sound in his throat, no certainty of clarity in his expression. Graves speaks anyway. “What would you like me to do here?” He slides his fingers in and back, pulling at Credence’s hair with the gentlest of touches, and Credence’s head angles back as if it were a fisted pull, his neck curving to bare his throat for the play of the light, for the weight of Graves’s gaze. Graves lets his eyes slide down the curve of it, lets himself consider the flutter of Credence’s heartbeat racing wild just under the surface of his skin; when he moves to draw his fingers through the other’s hair it’s with the care of a caress, with all the gentle affection of ownership in the motion. “How would you like me to cut your hair?”

Credence’s lips come together, his throat works on a swallow. When the ink of his lashes moves this time it’s to open and fix his gaze on the far side of the room. He doesn’t look to meet Graves’s gaze, doesn’t tip his head to glance up; but Graves can see color climbing under the other’s cheeks, can see the stain of self-consciousness bleeding out into that winter-pale skin before him as Credence struggles into words.

“I want,” Credence starts; and then stops, like he’s lost the words or maybe his voice, like he’s been struck silent by the weight of his own desire. Graves lifts his hand again to touch at Credence’s temple, to draw the fall of dark back from the other’s features; and Credence shudders, and swallows, and fights himself into speech. “I want it to look like yours.”

Graves’s fingers still, his touch hesitating against the dark of Credence’s hair as his focus inverts, turning away from the person before him and in towards himself, to consider that appearance he offers as a display for the rest of the world. For a moment he can see himself as Credence must see him: strong, confident, radiant with the power and the presence that Credence tries so hard to strip from himself. It’s dizzying, for a moment, like he’s slipped inside the space of Credence’s mind, or maybe like he’s been drawn there, as if by the tug of a too-hectic Pensieve; Graves imagines, for a moment, he can feel fingers in his own hair, a touch steady enough to ground himself out upon, to lean into and finally shed the frantic, terrified tremors that so constantly wrack Credence’s existence.

“Mr. Graves?” That’s Credence’s voice, shaky with need; Graves blinks hard, shedding the illusion from his focus and coming back into himself at once. Credence takes a breath and tips his head forward; when he speaks it’s faster, with the words falling past his parted lips like a sudden downpour. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid, I’m sorry--”

“No,” Graves says; and he tightens his fingers on Credence’s hair, pulling hard to urge the other’s face back up towards the light. There’s resistance, this time, a moment where self-consciousness wins out over obedience; but Graves tightens his fingers to a fist, and Credence leans back all at once as his brief stubbornness melts like frost to sunlight. His head comes back far, angling hard as if to make up for his prior restraint; and for a moment he’s gazing straight up into Graves’s eyes, with his lips parted and eyes half-lidded with near-apologetic want.

“No,” Graves says again, and he loosens his hold to stroke Credence’s hair back, to touch his fingers to the other’s forehead and push back over his scalp. Credence’s lashes flutter as if under an impossible weight; his lips part the wider on some unvoiced whimper. Graves’s skin flickers with heat as if to answer that helpless, incoherent need. “You’re not stupid, Credence.” He draws his fingers in and back in one last long stroke; and then he cups his hand at the back of Credence’s head and pushes to urge him to the side again. “I can do that.”

They don’t speak again, after that. Graves has enough to guide his actions, he hardly needs more instruction; and Credence is instantly submissive, turning and shifting in response to every press of Graves’s fingers without the need for any clarification of words. The scissors slide through Credence’s hair, bringing the line of it up off his ears and into a close approximation of Graves’s own slicked-back style; and under his touch Credence trembles, his lips parted over his breathing as his pulse flutters frantic against the line of his throat. Graves’s attention wanders the curve of Credence’s lashes, traces against the line of the other’s jaw; even as the scissors in his hand mark an unerring line through the fall of dark strands his gaze is sliding down, following the fall of the cut-through hair to linger at Credence’s throat and the curve of his collar. Graves works his way around one side, moving slow but certain in every cut; and then he touches against Credence’s head, and Credence lets himself tilt to the other direction, and Graves continues there, drawing his touch through Credence’s hair to lift the strands with an infusion of magic subtle as static before he closes the scissors on the satisfaction of a cut. He moves steadily, neither hurrying nor delaying but so absent from any consideration of time that even as he shears through the last of the length-heavy locks he hardly realizes he’s done. The hair falls loose, the dark of it scattering against the line of Credence’s collar; and Graves reaches out without looking to set the scissors aside and out of the way.

“Alright,” he says, his voice dark and soft and soothing, a natural transition from the smooth slide of the metal over itself. “Let’s clean this up.” He lifts both hands out, spreading his fingers wide as he reaches to skim against the front of Credence’s jacket; and then he draws up, slowly, lingering over the friction of his touch as he brings his fingers up across Credence’s shoulders and in to ghost across his skin as magic hums to collect the scattered fragments of cut hair from the other’s clothes. Credence’s head tips back as Graves’s touch slides up his throat, his lips parting wider as Graves trails up against that pale curve of his neck; and Graves draws it long, watching the motion under Credence’s blue-veined eyelids as if he can see whatever fantasies are playing out in the other’s mind, as if he’ll be able to bleed himself back over into Credence’s existence as he did in that first moment if he gazes long enough at Credence drinking in his touch the way a starving man would struggle for food. Graves’s touch comes up, Credence’s head drops back to follow; and then Graves’s fingertips slide up and against the line of Credence’s jaw, and Credence’s lashes flutter and come open just as the glow of magic sweeps out to illuminate his features. For a moment he’s gazing up at Graves, his eyes cast to translucent pale by the glow of the magic clinging to his skin like sunlight; for a moment Graves is gazing down at him with the full weight of his consideration open and obvious in the way he’s looking at Credence. They gaze at each other for a moment, Credence flickering with light from Graves’s hands and Graves with his thumbs pressing steady against Credence’s cheekbones; and then Credence shuts his eyes again, and trembles through a sigh like satisfaction, and Graves brings his hands up and over Credence’s face to draw the last of the loose strands off the other’s skin. The cut ends gather at his fingertips, swept together by the hum of his magic in the air, and he snaps his fingers to disappear them outright while Credence is still shuddering over his exhale. A twist of his wrist, an opening of his fingers, and there’s a span of silver against his palm, spreading wide to open into a mirrored disc balanced against the tips of his fingers.

“There,” Graves says, and he ducks down, bracing his free hand at Credence’s shoulder to steady himself as he drops to a knee behind the other’s chair to bring them more nearly of a height. His other he extends out over Credence’s shoulder, reaching as far as his arm will take his conjured mirror; and then he draws his hand back, leaving the disc to hover in midair as Credence lifts his head to upright once more. Graves watches Credence’s lashes lift in their shared reflection, watches the other’s eyes come into focus on the image of them; it’s only once Credence is watching that he lifts his hand to touch against the other’s hair and stroke through the fresh-cut soft of the strands now ending just over the tops of his ears and short across his forehead. Graves pulls his hand through the dark of the locks, watching the way Credence’s expression goes slack with the pleasure of the contact, with the warmth of his touch; and then he drops his hand back to the other’s shirt, offering the weight of his touch steady and reassuring against the narrow line of Credence’s shoulder. Their reflections mirror the action, from the tension in Graves’s fingers to the tilt of Credence’s head in towards it; Graves waits until Credence is looking into the mirror again, waits until they’re holding each other’s gaze once more. “You look good, Credence.”

Graves watches Credence’s lashes skim his cheekbones, watches his throat struggle over the coherency of a swallow. “Mr. Graves,” he says, a plea for something left unstated, unknown; and in the clarity of their reflection Graves watches Credence’s gaze flicker down, watches the focus of those frightened eyes go dark as Credence’s attention catches and clings to the reflection of Graves’s mouth. Graves waits for a moment, just watching; and then he lifts his hand from Credence’s shoulder, and he slides his touch up to brace at the back of the other’s head and urge him into a turn.

Credence trembles with the motion: Graves can feel it thrumming against his palm, can hear it in the catch of the other’s breathing, can taste it in the heat of Credence’s exhale slipping against the corner of his mouth. But he turns all the same, following the guidance of Graves’s touch like a magnet; and Graves watches it, watches the action of Credence tipping in towards him like that flower answering the call of the sun, answering the promise of the daylight. His fingers are settled into the soft of Credence’s fresh-cut hair, his palm is holding steady against the other’s head; and then Graves turns away from the mirror, and lets the magic go, and leans in to press his mouth to the open want of Credence’s barely-parted lips.

He imagines he can taste the reflection of his own magic against the heat of Credence’s skin.


End file.
